


Honey, I'm Home

by muhreenah



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence, Hawke survives the Fade, I haven't actually played the game SO expect the worst, I mean I'm gonna stretch this out as much as possible, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, just a couple of pals being in love and dumb about it, tags to be added as I figure out what the frickle frack is happening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 10:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10275161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muhreenah/pseuds/muhreenah
Summary: "Maker, Hawke, I nearly made a pincushion of that messenger for daring to interrupt my eulogy at your funeral. I can’t decide whether I love or hate your unintentional flair for dramatic timing."___Varric is pissed, Hawke is evasive, and the entire Inquisition is just waiting for them to get their heads out of their asses.





	1. Back from the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on this gosh darn site (officially) for about four years, but up until now I've been too busy with school to write/post anything. Now I have a degree and more free time at work, so here we are.
> 
> I apologize for any inaccuracies or liberties taken with the plot - I haven’t actually played DA:I yet, just DA2, so I’m working with limited knowledge here. I’ve tagged this canon-divergent because it probably is...
> 
> Enjoy! :)

_Scrawled on a blood-stained rag:_

 

It turns out that Nightmare demons are, in fact, the stuff of nightmares. I suppose that should've been obvious.

 

\- MH

 

~~~

 

 _Hastily written on a page torn from_ _Hard in Hightown, Vol. 86_ _:_

 

Maker, Hawke, I nearly made a pincushion of that messenger for daring to interrupt my eulogy at  your funeral . I can’t decide whether I love or hate your unintentional flair for dramatic timing.

 

So, the Champion lives. Good to know. I had every mage in the Inquisition test the blood to make sure it was you - I assume that’s why you included that little detail to your heart-felt...note? Way too short to be a letter, not nearly enough information or bullshit to be one from you either. Mind telling me where you are, by the way? I can send the cavalry to escort you. ‘All Hail the Conquering Champion!’ and all that rot.

 

I'll go ahead and get started on getting you living again, shall I? I enlisted the help of Tiny and Sparkler to build a pyre for burning your death certificate, although we'll have to wait for you to show up before the show can start. And before you ask, I already sent a letter out to Junior informing him of...things, but Andraste only knows if that'll ever get to him. With luck, it never does. I...may have been a bit dramatic (even for me) in the retelling of events, and any relative of yours is bound to be as allergic to feelings as you are. Wouldn’t want a Grey Warden to get a rash.

 

Andraste’s tits, Hawke, you escaped the blighted Fade! I can't believe I doubted you - dealing with all these inadequate Inquisition idiots must be impairing my judgement. You’re obviously impervious to trivial mortal ailments like death.

 

I'm going to stop writing before I lose my good humor entirely. Well, that, and our dear Inquisitor is flirting with Buttercup again, and I’ll be damned if I have to change my locks for a third time this week.

 

Welcome back, Hawke. You’ve been missed.

 

  * V. Tethras



 

~~~

 

_Written in steady script on what appears to be the back of a manifesto for mage’s rights._

 

My dear, trusty dwarf:

 

I’ll be sure to track down the messenger and apologize profusely for your tendency to shoot now, ask questions later. Was it well attended, my funeral? I’ll bet it was. You must tell me if Aveline cried - I’ll be needing a detailed description of the splotchiness of her face and volume of mucus involved. And I beg you, please lie to me if there were flowers at any point in the ceremony. I know I asked Merrill to make sure that there were at least three large piles of dirt surrounding my body, rocks optional. You know we Fereldans love dirt. Though I suppose in the absence of an actual body, that might’ve been difficult.

 

As far as my note is concerned, I suppose I could’ve worded my missive with a tad more grace and detail, but considering my original draft read ‘not dead!’ and included a rather impressive drawing of me climbing out of the Fade with a demon head on the end of my staff, I’m going to assume that you’re retroactively grateful. You have missed me, haven’t you?

 

If it’s quite alright with Her Inquisitorialness, I’ll be sitting out on the next adventure. Actually, I might need to do quite a bit of sitting once I get back. I seem to have misplaced a good chunk of my leg, which makes the whole ‘walking back to Skyhold’ ordeal a tad tiresome. If our feathered friend is available, send for him, would you? I’m not sure I trust anyone else to fix me up right now.

 

I think the news of my demise might just make Carver’s day! Maybe even his whole week; I don’t imagine fighting darkspawn day and night is terribly amusing business. I do worry for Ser Fluffbutt though, poor old chap. He must miss me terribly.

 

I too must end this letter prematurely - I hear a pack of green cutthroats headed my way, and I’m feeling too benevolent to deal with them, so this fire needs dousing before I begin hobbling back towards the mountains. I’ll post this in the morning, and I imagine it’ll only take me a fortnight to make it back - the Fade seems to have spat me back out near Lothering, if you can believe the irony, but I know how to speed-hobble when I need to.

 

Until then, I remain your clever, gorgeous, relentlessly stubborn,

 

Hawke

 

P.S. - I’m assuming this will reach you before I do. You can’t be a difficult man to find, but I made sure to give the runner a thorough description: elderly dwarf, shows entirely too much chest-hair, probably carrying an overly-large crossbow, definitely overcompensating.

 

~~~

 

_Sitting in a crumpled ball near the wastepaper basket:_

 

Hawke,

 

Nice try, but you don’t fool me for one second. I’ve sent several search parties eastward to escort you back to Skyhold; Maker knows you’d be crawling by the end of day two. And you’d better be  keeping that leg wrapped - Blondie’s on his way, but I’d rather spare everyone the trouble of  having to track down the Grey Wardens again because SOMEBODY contracted the taint.

 

Speaking of Blondie, you didn’t...bring any new friends with you, did you? Not that I’d complain if you somehow got possessed by, say, a spirit of Honesty, (it’d sure make dealing with you a hell of a lot easier), but I’d appreciate the forewarning so I don’t accidentally reintroduce you to  Bianca if you start glowing. The crossbow, not the original. Obviously.

 

The funeral went off without a hitch, all thanks to the top-notch supervision provided by yours truly. (Apparently, if you die in service to the Inquisition, they pay out of pocket - not too shabby). It got delayed a few weeks when one of our scouts sent back a report - false sighting, though the outfit was very convincing; I suppose I didn’t make it clear enough in my stories that you were a woman. Aveline and her man made it, and I’m sorry to say that no tears were shed from the pair (although I did detect a quivering lip). Rivaini and Broody refused to believe me. Well, Isabela said so, I assume the drawing Fenris attached was supposed to be him seeking revenge, although it looked more like a tree doing unsavory things to a herd of cattle. Choir-Boy sent his regrets, never liked that man, and Daisy...well, it wasn’t pretty. But fret not, Champion, you drew quite the crowd. Half of Thedas showed up to pay their respects and celebrate the end of your reign of terror!

 

...Maker, Hawke, I can’t joke about this. You want the truth? It was a shit show.

 

The Inquisitor stepped out of the Fade without you and I didn’t want to believe it but...shit. I got one lousy conversation to sum you up, we drank, and then we up bright and early the next day to kill more Venatori. We had to go on like everything was fine, like we hadn’t just lost one of the best of us. You sacrificed yourself in the blighted Fade for some hopeless, idiotic cause, because that’s all you know how to do, and you didn’t give a fuck what would happen after that. You left us without saying goodbye. You left me, Marian, and I’ll be damned if I say I didn’t cry for you.

 

Shit. I’m not even upset that you called me an old man. I’m just grateful you’re back. Fuck, I’m glad you’re back.

  


~~~

 

_Copied on scraps of paper, sent out with every search party:_

 

Hurry up, Hawke. If you die on the way, I’ll kill you myself.

 

  * Varric




	2. Absolutely NO Introspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke makes her way back to Skyhold, and absolutely does not Think.

As luck would have it, one of Varric’s search parties happened upon the very patch of ground where Marian Hawke had decided to ‘take a breather’ nine hours earlier. The healer was able to bring down her fever and rouse her to consciousness, but it was another two days of grousing and arguing and overall annoyance on both sides before the Champion of Kirkwall was deemed fit to travel. Hawke had seen and dealt with a lot of very crazy people in her time, but healers retained a special brand of paranoia that she’d never fully comprehend. 

 

“Honestly, thank you all very much for your hovering, but I assure you, I feel right as rain!”

 

“Champion, you have several fractured ribs, a broken finger, and you are missing a sizeable portion of your thigh! You are lucky you did not bleed out within minutes!”

 

“I keep telling you lot, that’s what elfroot and rudimentary healing spells are for. I’ve done a lot more with a lot worse, trust me.”

 

“I’m under strict orders from Master Tethras to-”

 

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you are. The fusspot probably tipped you handsomely to put up with me, but I can manage on my own, thank you.” Hawke grinned at the look of increasing frustration painting the healer’s face. She turned to the rest of the party, who appeared equally stunned. “That’ll be all for today, messeres! We won’t be getting anywhere at this rate. Does anyone have a mount I can use? Let’s ride.”

 

Hawke spun around and strode an impressive three steps before planting face-first into the dirt.

 

“On second thought, perhaps I will take you up on that whole ‘cart’ offer.”

 

~~~

 

The journey back to Skyhold was a tense one. Hawke’s initial amusement at her party member’s worried countenances slowly morphed into anxiety, or at least as anxious as she ever allowed herself to become. The focus she was diverting into absolutely not worrying about her physical injury kept her from keeping all of her memories and emotions properly repressed. She knew that her life choices were bound to catch up to her eventually, but she’d survived thirty-something years by repressing things, and today was not going to be the day that she fudged up a perfectly good system, thank you very much.

 

_ No time for introspection _ , Hawke thought firmly, pulling out Varric’s letter from the satchel sitting in her lap. The soft click of hooves and scrape of wheels under her slowly faded into the background as she immersed herself once more in the parchment. She’d already all but memorized the damned thing, but her traveling companions were poor entertainment (they hadn’t brought a single dog), and Andraste knew she needed a good diversion lest her pity party commence.

 

Ah, her dwarf, always telling her exactly what she needed to hear. Had she written anyone else, the response would’ve been angry, concerned, or worst of all, tearful. But Varric, good old Varric,  could always be counted upon to see through her bullshit and raise her sarcastic pragmaticism. It also didn’t help that he was usually her biggest fan. ‘ _ All Hail the Conquering Champion’, indeed,  _ she thought wryly. He probably wouldn’t be very happy with her once he actually saw the shape she was in, but honestly, Hawke thought, he should be used to it by now.

 

It’d been over ten years since Varric had stopped a thief in Hightown from getting away with the pouch full of silvers she’d made that week (although she still wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t staged the entire affair to make a dramatic entrance), and Hawke could not for the life of her remember what life was like before then. Less fun, certainly. She remembered the hardship, a family hiding three apostates guaranteed that much, and the loss of Bethany and Father, but Hawke no longer felt the pain like a gaping wound. At some point, in between trekking along the Wounded Coast and weekly Wicked Grace nights at the Hanged Man and too many jokes about chest hair and underwear, she’d stopped hurting. 

 

Her past was scarred over; it was still there of course, tucked away in her mind, but it only bothered her on rainy days, or when she occasionally stopped rushing towards the nearest threat and had time to really feel all her aches and pains. Time and a few good friends had seen to that. Hawke’s friends were another breed: they had seen through the charm and wit, down to the dimmest and most broken part of her, and still they had been drawn to her, the idiots. But they were her idiots, and she was grateful.

 

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She loved all her friends dearly, though she didn’t think she’d ever said as much. Her world may have become slightly more chaotic of late, the destruction of Kirkwall’s Chantry ranking lower on the list of most impossible things Hawke had lived through, but the fact remained that her entire life had come to revolve around her friends.   

 

Hawke’s friendship with Varric Tethras had been sudden but welcome - at a time when her life was smuggling gigs with her brother, weekly reprimandings from Aveline, and countless arguments with her uncle, the rogue had provided a welcome distraction. As time went on and more companions joined their motley crew, he had became a constant in the party, and he was never far if Hawke required assistance, an ale, or just a good story. Varric, with the help of Bianca of course, had saved Hawke’s ass more times than she cared to admit; even out of battle, after Anders happened and they all fled Kirkwall, Varric kept them all in touch, his courier system as extensive as it was secretive. But he knew Hawke needed her friends, he always knew what she needed (and sometimes didn’t shut up about it). He was equal parts level-headed and spontaneous, and, if she was being honest, the only reason she was still alive. 

 

Somewhere, a carrion bird screeched, startling Hawke from her thoughts.  _ Damned mind, I said no introspection. Not much further now. Probably. Now, what was that tune the bard was playing that night? Something about mages? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapters are so short. I'm hoping the chapters get longer once everybody is in the same place and things can happen.


End file.
